


you know my soul

by singlemalter



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, Sex for Favors, Under-Desk Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 20:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20681168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/pseuds/singlemalter
Summary: The nature of negotiations is such that you must make sacrifices for the sake of your career.





	you know my soul

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone in our little hell Discord. :)

“Your father said you’d come,” says Toto, legs crossed over his mahogany desk.

“Yes,” Max says. “He tells people a lot of things about me.”

Toto chuckles grimly, almost apologetic. “He told me quite a lot about you. Dedicated. Driven. I like these qualities in a driver.”

“So you are going to sign me?” Max asks derisively. He knows that’s not how it works, but it doesn’t hurt to try. 

“It depends. Are you going to impress me?”

Max shrugs, more nonchalant than he feels. “Can I?” 

Smiling, Toto puts his feet back on the floor, allowing Max to kneel between his legs, bent uncomfortably so his head doesn’t hit the hardwood. He doesn’t hesitate, brushing over the bulge in Toto’s trousers, swallowing to try and dispel the sudden dryness in his throat. Out of pity—or impatience, Max can’t tell—Toto reaches down and undoes the buttons himself, pulling out his cock and dragging it gently across Max’s cheeks.

“You’re so big,” Max says, because he knows men love to be flattered by a pretty, vulnerable boy, and Toto is only human beneath his impassive exterior. He wraps his lips around the head of Toto’s dick, remembering all of Mercedes’ wins over the past five years. This is for a good reason, it has to be.

Toto seems pleased enough, and Max forces his head farther down, his right hand on Toto’s thigh to give him some stability. A thin layer of sweat gathers on his forehead, skin slightly pink from exertion, yet he keeps pushing—it’s what he does best, never giving up, always striving to be the greatest, both on track and on his knees. He wants to be deserving of victory, even if he’s gotten gargled and spanked and spit out by God. 

“You’re lucky you’re so hardworking,” Toto comments, tugging at Max’s damp hair. “Otherwise, no man in his right mind would keep a man like your father around.”

Though he isn’t sure it’s a compliment, Max hums gratefully, taking more of Toto into his willing mouth. _Yes_, he thinks, _I am good enough to make up for my dad’s misdeeds and grime. His cruelty is worth less than my body_.

Toto takes his phone from the desk, scrolling absentmindedly while Max’s at it, and it offends him; just to make a point, he sucks Toto’s cock harder, and it bumps against the back of his throat, choking him. He wants to be acknowledged, for fuck’s sake, no matter what it takes. 

“Don’t be greedy,” Toto warns. He turns the phone so Max can see the screen. It’s a picture: Nico Rosberg, a _champion_, his flushed torso and cheeks dirtied by white streaks. Toto’s shoes are visible in the shot.

Multiple feelings swirl in Max’s stomach: jealousy, perhaps—he’s used to men treating him as though he’s special, yet this proves he’s not Toto’s first, nor is he going to be the last. There’s a hint of anger at Nico for being wasteful, not hungry enough to drink every last drop of Toto’s come. Maybe if he’d tried harder, he would’ve had a better fate at Mercedes, achieved more than a throwaway title owed to a series of unfortunate issues on the other side of the garage.

He puts more of himself into this sloppy blowjob, then, as if this will make up for any doubts Toto may have about his commitment. Hard work begets all of his success, even if he’d never tell people why he’s able to drive a race-winning car today. This next step in his career is no different.

Toto’s precome is watery and bitter on his tongue, and he swallows around the length inside his mouth, feeling the familiar sting of tears in the corners of his eyes as breathing becomes harder. His struggle doesn’t go unnoticed; Toto says, “You look beautiful like this.”

Max isn’t shy—he’s boisterous, confident, the perfect example of a living legend—which is why he has no idea why Toto’s words go straight to his own dick. He shows his gratitude by humming softly, free hand coming up to play with Toto’s balls, teasing them with his palm like he does to himself when he’s alone and needy.

His jaw hurts, and his neck aches with the effort of moving up and down repeatedly. He takes some time to breathe, and Toto raises a hand to Max face, thumb running over the faint stubble dotting his jawline. It’s far more enjoyable than Max cares to admit, to the point he leans into the touch, something he’s well aware he isn’t supposed to do.

“I’m close,” Toto murmurs. “Just a little bit more.”

“Okay,” says Max, and returns to sucking him off with renewed vigour. A line of spit and precome drips on to the floor. He wonders who’s going to clean this up, if it’s Toto himself, if he has a trustworthy person who knows what he does in the privacy of his office.

Toto’s orgasm is silent, legs tensing around Max as he comes. It doesn’t taste good, far too pungent for any sensible person; Max’s never enjoyed swallowing, but he does it anyway. What he likes and dislikes matters very little when his future’s at stake, or so he’s been told.

Afterwards, he sits on his haunches and wipes his spit-slick chin, briefly glancing up at Toto for some kind of feedback, anything at all. He finds nothing. Sighing, he gets back on his feet and watches as Toto tucks his soft dick back into his pants, weirdly professional about the entire situation.

“Was I good?” Max asks coyly, even if he’s terrified of the answer. Silence keeps his spine from becoming another person’s wishbone, but he’s never been good at shutting up. 

“Maybe you could be better in silver,” Toto says, leaning back on his chair as if to say, _this conversation is over_. 

Max is no fool. He knows when to leave, and he does, shame deep in his gut. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lovingly written with _Pish_ by The Brian Jonestown Massacre playing on repeat about 10 times, which is also where the title is from!
> 
> “I wanna be able to stand like that. Even after getting gargled and spanked and spit out by God” from _Gandhi’s Autobiography_ by Buddy Wakefield.
> 
> “I knew the silence kept your spine from becoming their wishbone” from _The Vinegar Club_ by Andrea Gibson.
> 
> singlemalter on Tumblr, etc.


End file.
